


Forwards and Backwards

by yourfavalien



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Football | Soccer, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-28
Updated: 2019-01-05
Packaged: 2019-08-05 15:43:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16370435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yourfavalien/pseuds/yourfavalien
Summary: The New York Avengers are an elite soccer team with nothing to lose and everything to gain.





	1. First Touch

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I am aware that my Marvel History is probably totally off. For this chapter (and the next, and the next...), please suspend your disbelief. Also, the characters ages are totally different so as to make sense with my timeline. You'll see more of this later.

**_Prologue_ **

October 23, 1963  
  
London, England

Many years ago, a man named Howard walked the streets of London. He had neat brown hair and a head full of ideas that no one seemed to want to listen to. He had been kicked out of his hotel room by his wife after she had complained that he hadn't seen the sunlight in days. Apparently, "I can see it through the window" was not a good enough answer.  
  
He dragged his feet, his hands in his pockets and his scarf flapping in the wind. It was a nice day, if not a little chilly, and he was surprised to see that nearly no one was outside. There were a few people, but most of them were rushing towards their destinations. He walked down the street and headed into the nearest store. The strong smell of beer and loud chatter hit him in the face as he walked into The Three Lions Pub. For one o'clock in the afternoon, the place was packed. Men dressed in suits and a handful of women in short, colourful dresses sat in booths, laughing and drinking. Howard walked to where a woman sat, alone, at the bar. Unlike the other rowdy patrons, she was nursing a glass of water. He took the seat next to her, signalling to the bartender with a small wave of his hand. He ordered a glass of ginger ale and watched the noisy crowd.

“Not from around here, are you?” asked the woman. Howard turned to face her. She wore red lipstick and was dressed rather old fashioned, with intricate curls in her hair and a fitted blazer and skirt. She reminded him a bit of his wife.

“How could you tell?” Howard replied, taking his drink from the bartender with a smile. He took a sip, the ice cubes dampening his mustache.

She shrugged. “You just look rather confused, that’s all. I guess pubs aren’t as popular in America?”

Now it was Howard’s turn to shrug. Perhaps they were, but Howard didn't really frequent them. Bars were more his speed. He took another sip of his drink. “Why is it so packed? It’s barely one.”

“You haven’t heard?” said the woman. She leaned on the bar. “There’s a football match on today. It’s England versus the rest of the world, so everyone who didn’t bother buying tickets is either in pubs or at home, watching.”

Football, or soccer as Howard knew it, wasn’t really big in America. In fact, he’d never seen a real game. Sure, a couple of his high school friends had played in kiddie leagues, but unlike other sports like _football_ football or baseball, there were no major or popular teams that sold out stadiums.

“Football you say? Where’s the game happening?” he asked the woman. She glanced over at a dark television. It was an old boxy thing, set amongst a handful of armchairs, all occupied by men in white long sleeved shirts. They passed money amongst themselves, adding it to large pool on the table in front of the television.

“Wembley Stadium, if I’m not mistaken. It’s about a fifteen minute taxi ride from here.”

That was all Howard needed to hear. He downed the rest of his drink and left 20 pence on the table. “Thank you,” he called to the woman, as picked up his coat and scarf and headed towards the door. Maria would be pleased to hear he'd done something with his day off.

“You’re welcome,” she replied. It occurred to Howard, as he hailed a cab outside the pub, that he’d never asked for her name.

* * *

Half an hour (the mysterious woman hadn’t lied, but traffic had doubled the travel time and tariff) later, Howard stepped out onto a busy street packed with people dressed in jerseys similar to those that he’d seen at The Three Lions. As he walked towards the entrance of the stadium, he noted that a handful of the crowd were wearing blue jerseys. The woman had mentioned that the game was England against the world, so he assumed that these were “the world’s” supporters. He stepped into the queue, waiting patiently for his turn. Those around him, however, were not as welcome to the idea. They cursed and grumbled about the wait, but he stayed silent, occasionally checking the time on his old pocket watch. What time was this game supposed to start, anyway?

Soon enough, he reached the front of the line. 

“Ticket?” asked a bored looking fellow wearing a yellow uniform.

“Oh, well actually, I was wondering if it would be possible to purchase tickets...now. See, I didn’t know about the game until today-” stammered out Howard.

“The game sold out weeks ago. Sorry,” interrupted the ticket boy. “Next!” he hollered.

Howard was jostled out of line by a couple behind him who held out their tickets impatiently. He sighed and watched as people passed by him and into the stadium, already packed with soccer fans. There went that plan. Guess he’d have to find something else to do with his day. He faced the street, already getting annoyed at the thought of having to hail yet another cab and frustrated at having wasted nearly an hour.

“Howard!

Howard turned, his hands in his pockets, and searched the crowd for where the voice had come from.

“Howard! Good god, excuse me! Sorry, yes, was that your foot? Sorry, ma’am. No, if you’ll just let me get through-Ah! Finally! Goodness, it’s a madhouse over there!” exclaimed a tall man after having wormed his way through the crowd to get to where Howard was standing. “I thought you weren’t going to stop for a second there, but I sure am glad you did! It’s been so long, Howard!”

Howard squinted at the man. He looked so familiar... “Andrew?” he guessed. The man looked slightly liked his old college roommate, but college Andrew was 20 pounds heavier with an overbite. This man was well dressed in a bespoke suit and looked like he could bench press a small horse.

“Yes!” buff Andrew replied, sticking out his hand. He grinned ear to ear. God, even his teeth were perfect. What happened to the boy that was fine eating nothing but pickles for a week if they were the only thing they had left in the dorm? This man looked like he had caviar and truffles injected into his bloodstream for meals. “I know, I look a bit different. I lost a couple of pounds, improved my diet and finally put those degrees to use and started my own company! What about you? How have you been conquering the world?” Andrew winked at his last sentence. He was referencing to what their economics professor had said to them every time he ended class: "And now go, my children, and change to world!"

“Oh you know,” said Howard, somewhat hesitantly. He shook Andrew's hand, wincing a little at his strong grip. “This and that. I got married,” he suggested. Marriage was usually something the Andrew’s of the world found exciting. He was right.

“Married?!” Andrew exclaimed. “Congratulations, stud! Do I know your girl?”

“Don’t think so,” replied Howard, pulling out his wallet. He removed a picture of Maria and him at the beach he’d had printed a while ago and gave it to Andrew, who lifted it up to his face. Andrew’s eyebrows shot up.

“She’s a beauty,” he commented, handing the picture back.

“Real smart too,” said Howard, tucking the picture behind his licence and putting the wallet back in his pocket.

“What about kids? You got any rugrats running around the house? Speaking of, where are you living now? Still in California?” Andrew asked.

“No, no, not yet," he chuckled awkwardly. "And uh, we’re actually in New York right now. What about you?”

“Oh, mainly London. It’s where the company's main headquarters are, so I kind of have to be here. You know how it is,” Andrew suggested, prompting Howard to tell him about all the companies that he ran. Unfortunately, Howard ran approximately zero companies at the moment, so he couldn’t do that.

“Sure,” replied Howard, lying to Andrew’s sculpted face. His mustache itched, and he resisted the urge to give it a scratch.

A loud bell sounded behind them and Andrew turned around. The crowd behind them had greatly reduced in size and he could hear cheers coming from the main stadium, a massive dome like structure. The ground seemed to shake with their cries. Andrew checked his watch (a Rolex, from the look of it) and his eyebrows shot up.

“I nearly forgot! I came over here to give my extra ticket. My buddy just canceled on me and it would be a shame to let the seat go to waste, so here.” Andrew handed him a ticket made of thick paper with the English flag printed on it.

“I couldn’t, Andrew,” he said. “This was probably ridiculously expensive.”

“Come on now. I probably owe you at least twenty five bucks from our college days. Consider us even now.” Andrew grinned again, and waved Howard to the turnstiles. Howard paused before accepting it.  _Oh, what the hell,_ he thought.

The line went by in a second and they were ushered in. Howard started to follow the crowd, but Andrew grabbed his arm. “This way,” he said, leading him to an entrance a couple feet away from where the rest of the spectators were entering.

Howard checked his ticket. Was it not general seating? Andrew nodded at the security guard in front of an entrance and they walked in. Howard’s eyes widened. They were on the field. Well, not fully, but if a player came to the sidelines, he could reach out and touch them. Andrew led them to seats near the middle of the field in the front row. A man seated where their seats supposedly were rose out of his own plush seat and greeted Andrew with a clap on the back. The man turned to Howard and smiled. He wore an even nicer suit than Andrew and had thick hair that was greying at the temples. He wasn't tall, but his presence made Howard feel tiny.

“You a mate of Andrew’s?” the man asked, shaking Howard’s hand vigorously. Howard nodded and the man smiled. “Any friend of Andrew’s is a friend of mine! You want a beer?” he asked, sitting back down.

Andrew motioned to the seat two down from the friendly man and Howard sat down as well. “Isn’t it a bit early?” he whispered to Andrew as the man waved down a server to order.

Andrew shrugged. “Drinking culture is very different here,” he replied. “You get used to it.” Andrew raised his voice a bit so that the man could hear him. “Howard, this is Michael Orville. He owns a company that’s been trying to buy me out for the last year and is only sweet to me to finally get me to cave.”

Michael guffawed and Andrew cracked a grin. “Not true, not true!” Michael exclaimed.

“And Michael, this is Howard Stark. He was my roommate sophomore year at Harvard. Top of our class. Smartest guy I know,” continued Andrew, patting Howard on the shoulder.

“Nice to meet you, Stark,” said Michael. “From what I’ve heard about Andrew’s other friends, to be considered the smartest is quite the achievement. You doing anything with that big brain of yours?”

Howard stiffened. He hated that question. No matter how intelligent, charismatic or funny you were, the only thing that mattered was how much money you were making to people like Michael and Andrew, for that matter. They wanted to know everything about your company, especially how well it was doing and if it was the top in its field, so that they could pitch you an offer to buy it up next week. Friends weren’t friends to these people. They were connections.

“Well, I haven’t actually started my own company yet. I’ve got a few ideas for projects that I’d like to build upon, but I doubt any investors will take me seriously,” said Howard, choosing his words carefully.

“Why’s that?” Michael leaned forward in his seat. The crowd cheered, and they turned to look as supporters unfurled a massive English flag. Michael put two fingers in his mouth and whistled.

“Oh, I don’t know. A lot of my professors didn’t take me seriously back at Harvard,” Howard replied.

Andrew nodded, making a noise. “Right. I remember that. It’s because they thought you were, what, three years younger than the rest of us?”

Howard shrugged. “Something like that. I feel like investors would be wary about investing in someone so young and without a solid reputation.” He shrugged again. “Who knows. Maybe I’m just too nervous to dive in headfirst.”

Michael nodded, resting his chin on his fist. “You never know, Stark. You seem smart. Even if you don’t want to create your own, I’m sure any major company would snatch you up in a heartbeat. What’d you major in for your undergraduate degree?”

“I did a double major in business and technology,” he replied. He braced himself for the judgement that would surely come with his technology major, but it didn’t arrive. Michael just nodded and pulled out his wallet, handing him a business card.

“If or when you decide it’s time for you to create the next big thing, give me a ring. I’ll take you seriously, I promise,” said Michael. 

Howard thanked him, tucking the card into his wallet without looking at it.

Andrew nudged him. “Impressive,” he whispered. “Michael doesn’t do that for just everyone, you know. He’s never said more than hello to my guests.”

“But I thought 'any mate of Andrew's-'”

“Nope. Just you,” grinned Andrew. He looked over at the field, where a group of people were walking on. The crowd’s energy swelled. “Look. The game’s starting.”

The crowd screamed so loud that the stadium shook. Howard was pretty sure he could feel his brain rattling inside his skull. Two teams of men emerged from an unseen area onto the field, waving to the crowd. There was about a half an hour of posturing (including the arrival of Prince Philip himself, who shook hands with both teams and posed for many a picture), before the team took positions and a man wearing a black shirt walked up to them, holding a coin. He flipped it high into the air, watched as it fell, and then a loudspeaker announced that England would be starting. A soccer ball was dropped at England's feet and the game begun.

And what a game it was.

As Howard watched, he felt himself being sucked in. The enthusiasm of the crowd, the caliber of skill being demonstrated and the sheer excitement of it all pulled him to the edge of his seat. He watched, entranced. At halftime, Andrew turned to him. The score was nil, but the entire crowd was sure at least one goal would be scored before the game's end.

“Quite a game, isn’t it?” he asked.

“It sure is,” replied Howard. He looked at the field, where a marching band was putting on a performance, then at the screaming crowd.

Then it clicked. This was his calling. _This_ was his business. There was a reason he couldn't think of of major league soccer leagues before coming to London. It was because they didn’t _exist_ in America. But he could change that.

 

Howard Stark would be the one to bring soccer to America. _That_ was how he would change the world.


	2. Dummy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Broadcast Notes:  
> Featuring one "high speed" car chase, one backstory and one impressed Tony Stark. (Bonus: a weird-ass timeline)

**_Chapter One_ **

August 14, many years later

Tony had grown up around soccer. From watching games in his father’s private box as he popped champagne to celebrate a championship win, to listening his father rant to his mother at the dinner table about the season’s turnout, to knowing starting line ups better than he knew his times tables. The culmination of all these things, plus many more, was probably why he’d sworn off the sport nearly eleven years ago. Tony had not picked up a soccer ball since playing for his high school team. And don’t get it wrong, Tony was good. After watching more matches than he could count and learning tricks from some of the best players in the world, Tony was well above average. It was just that he hated it. He hated it as much as his father loved it. In fact, when he’d been told by the doctor that he’d never be able to play again, those many years ago, he was glad. Finally, he could live the life he wanted.

So Tony went to the school of his dreams. He studied technology and engineering at MIT, graduating valedictorian and never once attending a soccer game. He heard about them though.

 

_“Tony? Tony! There you are!” Rhodey’s face peaked into Tony's open doorway. “We’re going to the game. You coming?” he asked, a hopeful look on his face._

_Tony shook his head, his eyes remaining focused on the circuit in from of him. “Busy.”_

_Rhodey rolled his eyes. “As usual,” he muttered under his breath, leaving Tony to tinker alone._

_Two hours later, Rhodey returned with a woman on his arm, considerably more intoxicated then when he’d left._

_“We won!” he cried, much to the woman’s delight, obvious by his happy giggles. “We won, Tony! We kicked their asses!” Rhodey paused, leaning on the doorframe to Tony’s room. “Hey, didn’t you used to play soccer?”_

_Tony stiffened and paused his work._

_“Yeah, isn’t your dad the guy that runs the league and everything? Woah, man, you must be know all the famous guys! Hey, d’you think you could get Steve Rogers’s autograph from me?” The woman perked up, her head swivelling to face where Rhodey was looking. Her attention shifted from Rhodey to Tony and her eyes went wide._

_“Oh my god! You’re Tony Stark like Tony_ Stark _? I thought it was just a coincidence! Woah. What's that like?” she fiddled with the neckline of her jersey, flashing Tony a bit more than he needed to see._

_Tony sighed tersely, growing agitated._

_"Yeah, man! You've never told me anything about your childhood. Man, you must have been blessed! Bet your pad was_ _sick!" Rhodey exclaimed, earning a laugh from the girl._

_Finally, Tony snapped. “You want to know what it’s like? It’s shit. It’s shitty having to grow up surrounded by people that your father idolizes because you know that he'll never look at you with as much respect as he does them. And as for Steve Rogers, no, I can’t get you his autograph. I never even met him, but I’m sure he’s a total douche. They all are."_

_Tony got up from his chair and closed the door with more force than necessary._

_"Guess he takes after his dad's temper," said the girl, her voice muffled._

_Rhodey never invited him to another game._

 

Halfway through his four years at MIT, Howard and Maria Stark died in a freak accident. It shook the nation, and all eyes turned to Anthony Edward Stark, heir to the legacy of a lifetime. Tony did what he had to. He let his father’s people run the league and the teams his father owned or managed while he finished up at MIT and then took over the day after graduation. He moved to Malibu, where his father’s favourite and best performing team was localized and watched over them while he acted as CEO and chairman to the league.

He still kept up to his old habits, some of which his fellow league board members were not too happy about. Though Rhodey had never pressured him into going to another game, he had still invited him to every party on campus back in their college days. Rhodey eventually managed to wear him down and Tony had left behind his robot to go to Julianne Piet's house party. It was a room full of nicely dressed students having conversations with minimal alcohol and was definitely not what Tony had expected. He found himself pleasantly surprised at the atmosphere and was soon sucked into the party life (though he would eventually switch from chill parties to the ones he'd initially feared that featured rooms of people dancing while clutching solo cups of bear). Tony enjoyed how people paid attention to him and didn’t care what his father’s name was. Sure, after that woman had found out, news had spread pretty quickly, but he learned to embrace it. The ladies loved it and the guys were always “honoured to be in the presence of a soccer god”.

He was on the cover of the Time a few times. The first was released the day after he took over as acting president of the league, also known as the day he was named Time's Person of the Year. It had a picture of him with the his father’s advisor, Obadiah Stane (who has since been shunned from the soccer world after trying to kill Tony to take over as CEO), standing slightly in the background. The second was when he’d been kidnapped by terrorists demanding him to recreate a functioning version of a missile that he'd created in college. The details were never released to the public, mainly since Tony had succeeded in creating a missile and had used it to blow up the terrorists’ home base. It was not something he was proud of, and had cringed when he’d seen his face on the copy they’d sent him. His third cover was released two days ago, after The Avengers were revealed to the public.

The cover was simple, but his favourite by far. It didn’t focus on him, or even feature him as the star. Instead, he shared the spotlight with Steve Rogers, one of world’s most famous soccer players. Behind them were Natasha Romanoff, Thor Odinson, Clint Barton, Bruce Banner and of course Nick Fury, all looking menacing in their suits and cleats (Nick wore oxfords, not cleats). A signed, framed copy of the cover would later hang above the entrance to The Avengers “headquarters”. The Avengers featured on 9 other important covers that day, including three major soccer magazines and Vogue, where they’d posed in custom designed uniforms, looking terrifying and beautiful all at once. This cover did not feature Nick Fury, because Vogue had decided to focus on the team as a unit and not a corporation. According to Rhodey, they were also on both the MIT and Yale Newspapers, these two showing only Tony and Steve’s faces respectfully. All in all, you could say that The Avengers’ announcement had caused quite a stir.

Tony thought of this as he drove along the highway, his car gliding smoothly along the open road. He was driving into his hometown, New York City, to go check on the tower. He had a meeting scheduled in-he checked his watch-fifteen minutes. Yikes. He was going to be late. Tony sniffed, nudging his orange sunglasses further up his nose. That's fine. It was high time Fury and Steve got used to it. After all, they had to deal with him for the next two years (at least).

He drummed his fingers against the wheel, humming as he watched the road. The top of the convertible was down, and wind whipped through his hair, (hopefully) giving him a thoroughly windswept look. He reached over and turned on the radio, switching between songs until he finally settled on a channel playing rock music. He hummed along, driving onto the Queensboro bridge. He watched as the East River sped past him, its water shining under the bright sun.

The roar of a motorcycle interrupted Tony's thoughts. He checked his rearview mirror to see a beast of a bike on his tail. The rider's face was obscured by black aviator sunglasses and their jacket whipped in the wind. Tony watched as the motorcycle overtook him, expertly weaving between cars. He smirked and revved his own engine, determined to catch up. What was the point of owning fast cars if you weren't going to have a car chase? He brought his roof up and shot from 80 miles to 120.

Tony's car was faster, but New York traffic was a bitch and didn't allow him the same freedom it gave the motorcycle. Still, he followed the bike down 59th Street, turning left onto Lexington. A glint caught his eye and he looked up. The Avengers Tower gleamed down at him, the giant A shining proudly. He smirked and continued to follow the motorcycle, meeting be damned. Who cares if he was late? It's not like they could fire him. 

After five minutes of riding down Lexington, the motorcycle turned into an alley. Tony slowed, checking to see if his car could fit down the tight street. He shrugged and turned the car onto the road. Fingers crossed. Tony cursed as the motorcycle zipped down the backstreet and he edged his foot onto the gas, determined to keep up. Both vehicles exited onto a small street and the bike made a sharp left turn, the rider almost parallel with the ground. Tony spun the steering wheel and watched as the motorcycle turned into yet another alleyway. He rolled his eyes but followed. What was with this guy and alleys? Tony turned to find himself (and the motorcycle) driving towards a tall fence. 

 _Well shit,_ he thought.

He slowed, his hand moving towards the gear to switch into reverse. Tony looked up, expecting to see the bike doing the same. Instead he watched with amazement as the motorcycle sped up and jumped the fence, landing effortlessly on the other side and speeding away. He scoffed and sat back in his seat, impressed and annoyed.

"Did anyone else just see that?" he exclaimed to no one.

Tony, shaking his head, turned his car around and plugged into directions to the Avengers Tower. He drove past Saks and pizza store after pizza store, still thinking of the motorcycle and its rider. He turned the radio back on, rolling his eyes as  _Empire State of Mind_ blasted through the speakers. He mouthed the words as he drove down Park Avenue, the tower directly above him. He turned into the parking lot, winking at the park attendant, who scrambled to let him in. Tony drove his car into the car elevator, fully singing along to Alicia Keys as he rose into the highest level of the parking structure. It was almost empty, but he still drove to the back, parking his Audi in his preferred space (in line with all his other cars). He flicked the radio off and stepped out, locking the car with a click of his keys. He adjusted his tie in the rearview mirror, patting down his hair. He walked through the lot towards the elevator that would take him to the main reception.

Tony pushed open the door to the elevator room, admiring the interior designer's choice in wallpaper. A fern sat in the corner behind two blue armchairs that sat atop a white shag rug. He walked towards the closed elevator doors and pressed the up button, tapping his foot as he waited. Tony stepped inside when it came, but stopped dead in his tracks at what he saw through the glass wall of the elevator.

A shiny Harley Davidson smiled up at him, its owner nowhere in sight.


	3. Work Rate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Broadcast Notes:  
> Highlights include a jacket, an impatient Nick Fury and YouTube.

_Tony pushed open the door to the elevator room, admiring the interior designer's choice in wallpaper. A fern sat in the corner behind two blue armchairs that sat atop a white shag rug. He walked towards the closed elevator doors and pressed the up button, tapping his foot as he waited. Tony stepped inside when it came, but stopped dead in his tracks at what he saw through the glass wall of the elevator._

_A shiny Harley Davidson smiled up at him, its owner nowhere in sight._

**Chapter Two**

Tony blinked a few times, frowning slightly in confusion. What was a motorcycle doing in the private garage? There was only a handful of people that had access to the top level of the parking structure and he was only supposed to be meeting one of them today. Tony was pretty sure Fury didn't drive a motorcycle. Fury was a badass, but he was a badass that cared about his own personal safety. He was more of a fortified SUV kind of man. Tony pressed a button on the elevator's control panel and watched as the doors slid shut. He wasn't the one that gave out the parking passes, that was Happy's job. He'd have to stop by his office on his way to the meeting. The elevator began to rise. 

Tony stepped out of the elevator and into the reception area. The building was currently closed to the masses, but if everything went according to plan, they'd open up a few floors to public viewing. He passed the receptionist, who was typing away on her computer. She lifted her head when he walked past and rose from her chair. 

"Good morning, Mr Stark," she said, smiling. "Director Fury and Mr Rogers are waiting for you in the conference room."

Tony nodded, drumming his fingers on the counter. "Is Happy in?" he asked.

The receptionist looked at her computer, typing in a couple of things before turning back with an answer. "No, he doesn't come in until Monday."

"Thanks," said Tony before heading towards the block of elevators near the back of the floor. He called one, smirking at the large team logo emblazoned on each elevator's doors. It was no question which team lived here.

The elevator pinged and Tony stepped in. The walls were currently blank, but Tony hoped to make them show a short montage of the team's victories (when they achieved them). Their christening match was soon enough, and Tony thought of it as the elevator rose floor after floor. Their new stadium had finished construction a couple weeks ago, and it was awaiting them for their first practice which was coming even sooner than the first match. Tony took a deep breath and the elevator's doors slid open.

Fury was seated at the long conference table and turned at Tony's arrival. The late summer sunshine filtered through the glass walls overlooked the city. A man was staring out these windows, his arms crossed. Tony strode into the room with all the confidence of someone who had definitely not been stressing about his future twenty seconds ago. The man at the window turned when he heard Tony's footsteps. 

"Rogers," said Tony, taking in his past idol. He was even more impressive in person, his broad shoulders apparent by the leather of his...motorcycle...jacket...Tony frowned. 

"Stark," replied Steve, crossing the room to shake Tony's hand. He was taller than Tony, which did not help quell Tony's slight anger. Had he been chasing  _Steve Rogers_ through the streets of Manhattan? 

"Have you two ever introduced yourselves before?" snarked Nick Fury. Both men looked over at him. Nick was leaning back in his rolling chair, looking like he wanted to leave even though the meeting hadn't even started yet. "You're supposed to say your own name. If you keep introducing each other press junkets are going to be a nightmare."

"I was just surprised to see this guy here, that's all," Tony replied, placing a hand on Steve's shoulder and giving Fury a terse smile. 

"Why? You knew he was coming," said Fury. He leaned over and grabbed a remote sitting in the middle of the table. He pointed it towards the large screen at the front of the room, bringing it to life. A handful of faces with expressions ranging from terrified to terrifying popped up. He gestured to the empty chairs around the table. "Have a seat."

Steve crossed the room to sit where he'd been earlier and Tony took a seat next to Fury, propping his elbow up on his chin. "That one's pretty good looking," he said, pointing at his grinning picture. Steve rolled his eyes and folded his arms. 

"Let's talk about the team," said Fury, ignoring Tony. His tone of voice made it obvious that he was less than thrilled by the players Tony had signed. Fury clicked the remote again and the face of a man with curly greying hair popped up. "Bruce Banner, also known as the puniest man on the planet."

Tony watched as Steve read Bruce's bio. One of his eyebrows was raised, probably in disbelief. He turned to read it for himself, even though he knew Bruce well.

Name: Bruce Banner

Age: 34

Position: Goalkeeper

Background: American from New York, currently living in India. Attended Harvard College, holds 7 PhDs.

Career: 5 years active, no prior professional teams, previously a scientist

"We're doomed," said Steve after he finished reading.

Tony shot him a glare. "Bruce is good. He got in an accident a couple of years ago that messed with his head and made him an amazing player. You should see him play. I have and it's...quite a sight," he replied, smiling to himself. "Puny in the streets, formidable in the-"

Steve cut him off. "An accident gave him talent?" he said, his eyes wide. "Got any other medical miracles I should know about?"

Tony fumed and opened his mouth to argue, but Fury clicked a button on his remote and replied before he could. "Stephen Strange. After an accident destroyed his hand and his medical career he set his sights on greater things. Practiced like crazy and made it to the big leagues, playing for a div two team before signing with us," he said as a man in a crested lab coat peered unkindly at them.

"With  _us_?" exclaimed Tony as Steve muttered, "At least he's played before."

"Sure," said Fury, shrugging. "As head coach, I reserved the right to sign five players. Most coaches would do all of the recruiting, but since you're whiny, I let you do most of the work. Read the contract before you sign it next time." 

Tony huffed. He  _had_ read the contract. Briefly. Friday and his lawyer had gone over it together and had highlighted the red flags they thought should be removed or edited. He didn't remember a clause about signing five players a season being one of them. Tony made a note on his phone to get a copy of the contract and reread it tonight.

"Moving on," said Fury, clicking away from Strange. The equally as intimidating face of a long-haired blond man with bright blue eyes peered down at them. "Thor Odinson. Tony poached him from a team in Scandinavia. A bit eccentric."

Steve seemed satisfied at Thor, probably due to Thor's numerous years on teams around Europe as well as his role on the Scandinavian national team. As a centre-back, Thor would probably end up working with Steve to get the ball from their net into their opponents. Fingers crossed they got along. 

"Here's another one of my freaks," said Fury, switching pictures. "Clint Barton. Picked him up from the circus when he was a kid and turned him into the beautiful right-back he is today. While we're on the topic, I might as well skip to Romanoff."

"That's going to be difficult," said Tony, staring up at the woman's face. "She better have tough skin. It's hell for women in this here league."

Fury nodded. A couple of years ago, the board had decided to include women in the league because, as Tony had put it, "Why not?" It had been a close vote, the board split 6 for and 5 against. The modern age is not that modern.

"I like her," said Tony, mostly to himself. "Good choice, Fury."

"Steve, you want to present this next one?" asked Fury as he switched to a picture of a shaggy looking man. Tony missed Romanoff.

Steve visibly stiffened. "How'd you get Buck?" he asked, turning to face Fury. He looked slightly pissed.

"We haven't managed to pin him down long enough to make him sign a contract, but we were hoping you could help us with that," replied Fury. "Our sources tell us he's staying nearby, and we're hoping you can convince him to join the starting line up."

Steve clenched his jaw. "I'll try," he said after a few seconds of hesitation.

"Good. Next," said Fury, clicking past Strange to the profile of one of Tony's recruits, T'Challa. "T'Challa No Last Name Given, son of T'Chaka, another soccer player. They both played for teams in Africa, but not much is known about them. It's all very hush hush down there." Fury didn't sound very pleased at this fact. He was kind of a control freak. A hoarder of information, if you will. "His sister, Shuri, is going to be helping out Helen Cho as assistant physio."

"Show him Okoye," said Tony. Fury obliged, skipping to a formidable looking woman with a shaved head. "You'll like her, Cap. She was captain of the Dora Milaje, an African team. If you can't bring in Barnes, she'll be our centre defensive midfield."

Steve gave no reaction. However, his expression did shift when he saw who was next on the slideshow. 

Name: Steve Rogers

Age: 26

Position: Centre-forward (captain)

Background: American from New York, currently residing in Brooklyn. Attended Yale University with honours.

Career: 10 years active, multiple professional teams most notably the Howling Commandos and the American national team. Played for the Yale Bulldogs during his tenure there.

26? Tony couldn't help showing a bit of surprise in his face. That did not sound right. How had his father idolised a  _teenager_?

"You went to Yale?" asked Tony. "What'd you study?" He hoped that Steve would mistake his look of surprise for shock at his alma mater.

Steve cleared his throat. "Art," he replied. "I got a scholarship there to play for them. Did my degree in three years and then went on to the Commandos."

Tony nodded slowly. He wondered if the soccer legend would live up to his impressive reputation. Tony turned to see Fury click to the next slide, his own cocky face grinning down at him. He realized that he kind of looked like a douche in his headshot, with his coloured sunglasses and pocket square, messy hair and cheeky smile. Compared to him, Steve's looked like a mugshot.

"Tony Stark," said Fury. Steve looked like he was all ears as he scanned Tony's bio. "Right mid, big ego and lots of cash. You know the deal." Fury skipped to the next slide.

"What, that's all I get? 5 seconds?" he exclaimed. 

"Don't worry, I'm sure your boyfriend is thoroughly impressed. You don't need to show off any more than you have," replied Fury. Steve went beet red and Tony fought back a smile. He looked at the screen instead. 

"James Rhodes, right defensive mid. The twins, Wanda and Pietro Maximoff, left and right wingers respectively. And that's it. That concludes the team," he finished, spinning to face Tony and Steve, who frowned.

"What? But there's holes in the starting line up. You're missing both a centre mid and a left-back and there is no way we're playing with anything less than six subs. We can't play like this. That is, unless you want us to lose," he said.

"I know," said Fury simply.

"And what are you going to do about it, coach?" replied Steve. Man, for a Commando this guy had a mouth on him.

Fury waggled a finger. "More like what are you going to do about it. I'm a busy man, I don't have time to run after mediocre players with contracts. You two, however. Your egos'll bring them in like flies to honey. Really annoying honey that is starting to get on my nerves, that is."

Steve leaned back pensive, but Tony frowned. "First, rude. Second, together?" he asked. "Can't. I'm busy. Booked all week in fact." He leaned back in his chair and slapped a hand to the table, shrugging.

"And when Steve brings in a bunch of all American, part-eagle freaks, you're not going to complain?" asked Fury, setting down his remote. Steve bristled at the comment.

"I think it'd be better if I went alone, actually. I recruited for the Commandos and Tony would just grab them off the street to get it over with," Steve said.

"If you're referring to Bruce then I'll have you know-"

"Gentlemen, gentlemen. Let's calm down," Fury hushed. "This isn't up for debate. You'll both do some recruiting. Whether it's together or separate, I don't really care. Just fill the holes in the team and get some subs. It's not that complicated. You've got two weeks before the draft closes and three before our first practice. I hope to see you back with at least five new players," Fury stood up from his seat, his long leather coat swishing against the chair. "I'll fax you the contracts."

Fury nodded to them and left, the elevator doors closing behind hi. Steve and Tony stewed in silence for a few minutes, the starting line up staring at them.

"You really think you can find Barnes?" asked Tony.

"You really think we can find stars in two weeks?" quipped Steve.

"Yes. We'll just check YouTube," said Tony. "Look."

Tony pulled out his smartphone, pulling up YouTube and typing "Crossbar Challenge" into the search bar. He scrolled through the first couple until he found one with 10,000 views featuring a twenty something year-old about to strike a soccer ball towards an open net. Tony swiped up and the video projected itself onto the screen.

"What's the 'Crossbar Challenge'?" asked Steve, squinting to read the title of the video. Tony didn't reply.

The man in the video finished talking to the camera and ran up to the ball, kicking it towards the net. The ball sailed through the air, curving towards the crossbar and...landing in the net. The soccer player cursed audibly and the shot cut to another attempt. This time, the player kicked it perfectly, and the ball bounced off the crossbar and towards the camera. The man cheered, throwing his arms up in the air in victory.

 

"No," said Steve. "Too cocky."

Tony rolled his eyes, but obliged, clicking the next suggested video. This time, a woman in her thirties took the challenge, talking to the camera for a whopping three minutes before actually kicking the ball.

"No," said Steve. "Doesn't respond well to authority."

Tony made a face and looked at Steve. "How can you tell that from watching a five minute of her?"

Steve shrugged. "The same way I can tell that we're not going to find any Avengers on the Internet."

"We've only been through two videos!" exclaimed Tony.

"And they're not exactly promising!" replied Steve.

Wild cheers interrupted the argument and both Tony and Steve turned to watch as a video played on the projector. Footage played from what looked like a high school soccer game taken on an iPhone camera. Tony watched a soccer player in a red jersey mow past the opposing team and line up for a shot. The soccer player arched his foot back and kicked the ball. It shot into the air and almost took the goalie's head off, sailing past his ear before landing in the net. A buzzer sounded and a bunch of boys in red uniforms rushed towards the soccer player, wrapping him in a hug. The video cut off, and autoplay suggested a video called "CHRISTIANO VS ME: CROSSBAR CHALLENGE FAIL!!". Tony turned off his phone.

"I think we've got our first superstar," he said, leaning back in his chair.

"But..." said Steve. "He missed the crossbar."

Tony groaned and leaned back in his chair. This was going to be a long two weeks.


End file.
